Introductions
by catchingeverdeen
Summary: She has a lot to prove, and her audience is less than supportive. A one-shot with possible sequel, set in Clove's childhood.


It was still dark the first time Clove approached the Training Center alone. The outlaying mountains were nothing but a dark silhouette against the horizon, and the moon was disguised by a heavy cloud cover.

She'd been there before, of course—for elementary training. The excruciating, days-long stretches of time where she was forced to sit in a classroom to listen to trainers drone on about the importance of strength, of honor, and of respect. They were never given weapons or even asked whether they knew which ones they wanted to train with. There was nothing physically demanding at all, and she'd hated it.

Something about the surrounding darkness set her nerves on edge. She clenched her hands into fists and, pushing fear to the back of her mind, strode through the guarded front gates. The men standing there, easily twice her size, didn't acknowledge her presence. Good.

She couldn't wait to prove herself. She wasn't a little girl anymore—she knew how to fight. She may be small, but that meant nothing. She was almost positive that she could easily kill either of the guards at the gate, if given the chance. But she wasn't stupid. She knew she had a lot of training to do. And before anything else, she had a reputation to build.

The front doors swung open at her approach, letting out a gust of freezing air. She lifted her head slightly and walked with purpose, sure that someone, somewhere was watching her on a security camera. Let them see she was confident. Let them know she wasn't afraid.

Down the brightly lit stretch of hallway, past the familiar doors and deeper into the building, she began to hear the grunts of a struggle. Strange, she thought; she'd planned on being early, getting a feel for the weapons and the targets and her surroundings. But she kept her stride long, preparing herself for whatever, or whoever, awaited her beyond the heavy doors in front of her.

One deep breath. That's all she allowed herself before heaving the doors open and stepping over the threshold into the gym.

The stench hit her first—sweat and blood mixed in a repulsive, masculine scent. Six people, all of them much larger than her and all of them male, stood loosely grouped around another pair, also boys, engaged in a fist fight of some sort. Eager sounds of encouragement reached her ears and drew her closer; the heavy grunts as one of them landed a blow, then suddenly the skin-crawling crack of bone breaking, set her heart racing. She'd seen fights before, of course, but this was different. There were no adults to break them up here. This was real.

A flash of blonde hair caught her eye, a blur of movement, twisting limbs and clenched teeth and rippling muscle. Something about the control this particular boy exerted, the strength pouring from his body, made her take a step forward. She wanted a closer look. That was a mistake; one of the other boys turned and spotter her, causing the entire scene to shift until all of them, including the fighting pair, were staring at her.

She saw the blood dripping down their faces, caked in their finger nails and splattered on their clothes. She felt an unexpected surge of pleasure at the sight—this was what she'd been waiting for. Bloodshed. Fighting. Pain. No more of the stupid ramblings of her instructors.

"You're new," the blonde one said. He stood a head taller than the others, and they all gave him a wide berth. That was why she was drawn to him; he had an unspoken power of them, easily seen in the way he stood sizing her up without bothering to hide it. The rest stood in a pack around him, with only one daring to stay at his side. The one he had been fighting, now cradling his injured wrist against his chest.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"What can you do?" One of the others, not the blonde, demanded. His arms were folded across his chest and Clove could tell he was trying to intimidate her—but she just felt frustrated. She wanted to talk to the blonde one. She wanted to know who he was.

"I throw knives," she said shortly, standing her ground.

None of them seemed impressed. One of them actually laughed, like she was some sort of joke. Anger pulsed through her veins now, and she scanned the room looking for… there, in a sheath hanging on the wall, were a dozen glimmering knives. She crossed to them in a few steps, yanked one from its home and sent it flying across the gym. It found purchase in a hanging mat, inches from the laughing boy's throat. A wave of satisfaction washed over her.

"You have a long way to go if you think that's impressive," the blonde one took a step towards her. She felt a pang of embarrassment, knowing that she still had a lot to learn. That was a good throw, but clearly they'd seen better.

"Who taught you to do that?" It was the laughing boy, no longer looking amused, who spoke. He pulled the knife from the wall and held it, clenched in his fingers.

"Does it matter?" This was a subject she wanted to avoid. It was her sister, Coda, who'd taught her how to throw knives; the sister who had been reaped less than a year ago, and had died in the bloodbath. Who had shamed the District and made their family something of a joke. She didn't want these people to know she was a part of that—she didn't want to have to overcome such huge setback.

The blonde boy narrowed his eyes at her, then flashed a vicious grin. "She's Coda's sister. They have the same body type, small and insignificant." He paused as the echo of laughter chorused through the gym, then took a step forward as the noise died down a few moments later. "I hope you've got more staying power than she did. What happened to her was embarrassing for all of us."

The one who held the knife now took a step forward, tossed the knife effortlessly back towards Clove. She was ready, though; she caught it, the blade narrowly missing her index finger, and clenched it in an angry fist.

Some of the boys looked mildly impressed. Others rolled their eyes like she was nothing new.

She would prove them wrong, she decided right then and there; they would see she wasn't weak. They would respect her. Maybe they would even fear her. Either way, no one would be laughing anymore once she had the chance to show them what she could do. They would regret getting on her bad side. She'd make sure of it.


End file.
